A Trained Killer

Until the Belle died, I lived with three military people. The military regimen is about as foreign to me as getting a tattoo or jumping out of an airplane.

Military stories make me weepy. I can hardly watch or read them.

My cousin, John, was in town a few years ago. The husband, the parents and I all went out to dinner. (This was before we had possession of the oldies.)

During our conversation, the husband talked about his military experience and his training as an Army Ranger. (It's like the equivalent of a Navy Seal.) John is a keen communicator so he kept the questions and stories flowing. Later, my parents commented that they knew about his military history but had not heard the embellishments of his Ranger days.

So I asked Big Daddy, "Why didn't you tell my parents about being a Ranger?"
He said, "I wasn't sure how to word it. I'm a trained killer and I plan to marry your daughter."

For the record, he never killed anyone. Even though he could snap me like a twig, I think he's occasionally afraid of me. The mind can be mightier than brawn. And my mind is twisted like a twig.